A Circle Closes
by Nunewesen
Summary: From the memoirs of Irene Norton née Adler - a second encounter with Sherlock Holmes, taking place during his hiatus...
1. Chapter 1

_This is the first part of a short story that takes place during the hiatus of Sherlock Holmes, shortly before his return to London. (I am sorry, my grammar is not yet perfect as I am German - so any hints regarding possible corrections are welcome...)_

* * *

**From the memoirs of ****Irene Norton (née Adler)**

It was in the late summer of 1893, when a small concert tour brought me to Montpellier in the south of France. I had already retired from the stages of the great international opera houses some time before my marriage – but I must admit I have never been really comfortable with singing completely disclosed from the public.

Luckily, my husband, Godfrey Norton, has always been quite appreciative of my need for a now-and-then audience – and as we had been forced by circumstances to leave England, my adopted home country, I was now rendering smaller performances in France, which had become our new home.

In the meantime I had, together with my maiden name, also abandoned that part of my past which had once brought me into the focus of the probably greatest criminalist of our time.

This confrontation had eventually been the cause for my beginning a new life abroad, because I then considered (and I still do) that I simply could not afford such a formidable adversary as Sherlock Holmes.

The later news about his death in the Swiss Reichenbach Falls had reached me, as well as the wider public, by means of the literary coverage of his chronicler and associate Dr. John Watson - and I am not afraid to admit that this had found me rather affected.

Though Mr. Holmes had become my opponent (and a positively dangerous one) on behalf of a European royal house, I had never borne him any resentment on a personal level.

On the contrary, his unbelievable resourcefulness, not to mention his obvious talent as an actor (which had even granted him access into my house, wearing the disguise of an elderly preacher) has always commanded my respect. But in those times, I would have much rather wished him to be my partner on stage as a sleuth close on my heels. I sometimes marvel, even nowadays, the fact that I actually had managed to slip through his fingers at the very last moment.

Those incidents, though, had already been laying far behind me during my time at Montpellier. When I was not performing I was leading a rather tranquil life, as well as a tranquil but harmonious marriage. The Mediterranean atmosphere of Southern France had turned out to be much to my taste, and I remember my Montpellier sojourn as one of the most agreeable ones during those years.

Godfrey had been called to Paris on business matters, so I spent quite some time on my own. When I was not rehearsing or performing, I indulged myself in long walks and rides, visited exhibitions and – maybe for sentimental reasons – even dabbled in composing an opera.

At least once a week I enjoyed the beautiful paintings of the Musée Fabre, and it was then and there, where I date the start of a quite remarkable acquaintance.

I had first noticed the Gentleman a few days before, during one of my evening walks, when he had been pacing briskly in my direction. He was a tall, thin and cultivated man with a well-groomed beard, his age somewhere between mid-thirties and forties. I had not known him, then, but when passing me by, he had politely lifted his top hat and mumbled: "Madame Norton…"

It had struck me as curious, because people who know me only from the stage still call me by my maiden name "Adler", so I am not used to strangers calling me "Norton". Also, as a musician, I have a very good ear for sounds, and something in this voice had rung a very distant bell in my mind, though I had not been able to combine the memory with a face.

The night after this encounter I had given a public performance, and there I had seen the gentleman again, sitting in the fourth row, his eyes closed, his raptor like features utterly relaxed, with a slight smile on his face. It is not unusual for me to read from the faces of my audience expressions of enjoyment – but something in this smile had touched me deeply – maybe the vague idea that it was a smile not often to be shown.

(t.b.c.)


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N:_

_So, here is a new part of the "Circle Closes" Story, describing a renewed aquaintance of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler during his hiatus - though he is unable to confess his true identity to her..._

_Your MIGHT notice that I have made a mistake, here... if I understand the canon right, Irene Adler must have already been dead for a while, when the Reichenbach incident happenend. **"Scandal in Bohemia"** is set in 1888 and had been published 1891. At this time, Irene Adler is mentioned to have already been dead (for reasons whatsoever). Thus, it might have been a bit difficult for her to meet Holmes in 1893/94 in Montpellier... that means, if we do not assume that she had faked her death, too. (Hey, I see another plot bunny hopping along... lol). Anyway, when I had noticed my mistake, the story had already been developed that far in my head and the first part published, so I did not want to throw it all away. So, please, be forgiving, if this story is thus not totally in canon..._

* * *

After the concert there had been the usual amount of congratulations, flowers and – I dare say – admirers. I usually enjoy the contact with the audience very much, though, this time, I had found myself looking out for the strange gentleman. And, finally, there he had been, standing in the background, nonchalantly leaning against a post, watching the crowd and watching me. When he had caught my glance, he had slightly, but politely bowed and then withdrewn.

Two days later, I eventually found him at the gallery, where a traveling exhibition of contemporary English masters was taking place.

He was sitting on a low bench, his chin resting on the silver knob of his walking cane, and was staring intently at a painting of the London Tower Bridge. He seemed so transfixed by the sight, that he did not even notice that one of his gloves had fallen to the floor.

Without thinking much about it, I seized the opportunity and approached him.

"I believe, Sir, that this is yours?" I said, handing him the glove.

He looked at me in surprise and rose from his seat. "Yes, indeed!" For a moment, I became the object of a quick and rather piercing look. "I thank you very much, Mrs. Norton – if you do not prefer the name of Adler. You'll have to pardon me; I am so fascinated by this picture that I must have been quite unaware of my surroundings."

"Well, it really is a beautiful picture."

"Oh, yes." He took off his slightly tinted glasses and polished them carefully with a handkerchief. "It is reminding me of home."

"You are British, then?"

"Yes, I am – on my mother's side, though my father has been Scandinavian. If you will allow me to introduce myself: John Sigerson."

"It is a pleasure, Mr. Sigerson. I think I have seen you at my performance, the other day?"

"That's right – though I wouldn't have thought that you would recognize me again."

"I am usually a good observer, you know." At that time, I did not understand why, but somehow my last remark had brought a little twinkle to his eyes, thus easing his somehow subdued countenance.

(t.b.c.)


	3. Chapter 3

"Have you already noticed this version of Big Ben, over there?" I pointed to a painting in a corner of the room.

He took that as an invitation to accompany me there, and for the remains of the exhibition we more or less walked side by side. He did not offer me his arm or tried to keep the conversation going by making chivalrous compliments or anything of the kind. Instead, he told me about his current occupation with chemical experiments (I think he mentioned something like coal derivatives) and his recent travels to Asia and the Orient.

I did not quite know what to make of him. He seemed to be neither a business man nor a regular scientist. His excellently cut clothes told me something about money, his rather pale face and his tinted glasses hinted to him not being out in the open very often. He treated me correctly and politely, but in a somehow guarded manner, as if not being used to company – let alone the company of a woman. His eyes were very keen and alert, and I was not sure whether this was part of his nature or if he rather wanted to make up for the short moment of weakness which had previously allowed me to take him by surprise. Maybe it was both.

The flow of our conversation did not run rapidly, but constantly. He seemed to be very interested in the arts and had a good knowledge of it, and when we arrived at that point his spirits considerably revived. In the end I had the feeling that he had maybe not directly been enjoying himself – but that the last two hours had at least provided him with some kind of distraction. He then escorted me to my carriage, bowed and wished me a good night, leaving me with the impression of an… a little strange, though pleasant, encounter.

I did not see anything of him during the following days, but the next Sunday I met him at a matinee violin concert, where we agreed upon an afternoon ride in the public park. He turned out to be an excellent horseman, and on that day almost seemed to enjoy himself a little.

When I returned home from that ride I went upstairs to change and thus came across the sight of my face, relaxed and florid from the exercise and the fresh air. I had to ask myself whether I had not begun to play with fire.

If this Mr. Sigerson would have been another type of man, and if I would have been another type of woman, the current circumstances would have surely put me in an awkward position.

Well, I was a married woman, married to a man who loved me well enough to accept not only my past but also my sometimes slightly unusual present. At an early stage of courting we had decided to apply our individual rules to our developing relationship, and our marriage was built upon mutual trust. My social life had – mostly due to my unconventional profession as well as disposition – always included the company of men. So far, this was not so unusual for me. The unusual factor in all this was my new and surprisingly fascinating companion…

_(t.b.c.)_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Now, I have surely taken my time with this new chapter, and it is a rather short one, too. Sorry. I attribute this to the effects of a little writer's block... but the next chapter is already being worked on, so I hope it will not take that long, the next time... :-)_

_Oh, thank you, by the way, for your very nice comments, I do enjoy them a lot and find them often very helpful, too._

_I dedicate this following chapter to Woolsey from China!_

* * *

During the following weeks I had the opportunity to find out more about his habits, though still not about his background. He seemed to be only frequenting some assorted places, like the museum, the laboratory where he did his research, occasionally a concert and the foyer of the Grand Hotel, usually at tea time, where he used to peruse the London newspapers, courtesy of the hotel, which reached Montpellier only with a relatively slight delay.

I sometimes met him there, the foyer of a hotel of this class being one of the few public places where a single lady could meet a respectable gentleman on a social level. There we would drink English tea and mainly talk about music and the arts.

He never gave away much personal information, which of course added to my curiosity. And while I was doing my best to respect his obvious need for a certain privacy, I made it my task to study this Mr. Sigerson carefully.

Sometimes I did not see him for days. We seldom made real appointments but had this kind of unspoken agreement to just come together now and then to enjoy a bit of company and some animated conversation.

All this time, though, he never got completely rid of his somehow melancholy air – or his guarded manner. I eventually came to the conclusion that he must be suffering of some kind of personal loss, which he preferred to not talk about.

Instead he seemed to entertain himself by observing his surroundings and drawing all kinds of sometimes rather fancy conclusions from what he perceived. At first I considered it some kind of eccentric pastime, but more and more I got the impression that this behaviour was second nature to him.

One afternoon, when we were simply and silently sharing the _Times_, he suddenly asked: "How is your composing progressing, may I ask?"

This question took me by surprise, because I was sure that I had never mentioned my efforts to write an opera to him. "How do you know that I am composing?" I therefore asked.

He lowered his paper (for some strange reasons he often preferred the advertising section) to look at me. "Well, you have often been humming a certain tune during the last few days. You have also slightly altered the tune in between, which, by the way, I had never heard before. It occurred to me that you had been considering several variations on the same theme. As you are, after all, a celebrated performng artist, the thought is not so far fetched that you have eventually decided to add your own work to the musical portfolio.

"You are right, indeed, Mr. Sigerson." I smiled. "Though I must confess that I had not even been aware of this behaviour. As a matter of fact I am somehow stuck with the principal aria of my opera. But –" My voice trailed off when I noticed the sudden change of his expression.

_t.b.c._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: You see, I am trying to improve my speed of updating...:-) Hope you will enjoy the results! OH, and in case you wonder about the cigarette case, you might want to have a look at my story "His wedding day". Comments, like always, most welcome!_

* * *

Something in the newspaper had obviously caught his attention: At first he stiffened, frowned and inhaled sharply. Then his eyes widened with a mixture of astonishment and something very similar to… terror. He sat there for a while, without a word or a recognizable move.

"Mr. Sigerson? Are you all right?"

I was unsure, whether or not he had heard me – but finally his eyes met my gaze, and it was with a visible effort that he calmed his features. The slight waver in his voice, though, betrayed a most unusual turmoil of feelings, as he asked my leave to withdraw for the rest of the day. "I am indeed very sorry", he said, "but I am suddenly feeling a bit unwell. I would be obliged if you would please excuse me."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No. No, madam, I thank you. Surely a little rest will do perfectly." But his anyway pale face had meanwhile assumed a rather sickly white tinge, and I grew somehow worried while I watched him settling the bill and hastily leaving the hotel.

He had left his part of the _Times_, on the table. I took it, hoping for a hint of what had troubled him so… not out of mere curiosity, I am feeling obliged to add, but due to a growing genuine concern on his behalf.

I quickly surveyed the articles, doing my best to hold the paper in the way he had done to find out which part of the sheet he might have read. Then I frowned myself: Obviously, it had been the obituaries…

Yet, _another_ loss?, I wondered. The poor man!

Something silver caught my attention, and I noticed that he had left is cigarette case on the table. It was actually a very nice one, of obvious value, which I had seen on the man regularly. I took it, at first unsure what to do with it. The obvious thing would have been to leave it at the reception desk… but then again, maybe the good Mr. Sigerson might want to have it back soon, and I did not expect him to be in the mood to come back today in quest of his cigarettes. I did not know the address of his lodgings, so there was no possibility for me to send it there… but eventually I decided to have a look into his laboratory, which he had shown me a few days ago. Maybe he had gone there. Or maybe I would find somebody there who would be able to tell me where to find _him_.

In gathering my things together I must have done some kind of clumsy movement, so that the cigarette case fell to the floor and opened, spilling its contents onto the carpet. I bent down to put the cigarettes back into their place, when I noticed the engraved inscription on the inside. It was a London address, and beneath it the words:

_I will only be a call away. J.W._

I briefly wondered about the story these few lines might be really telling, but was distracted in my thoughts when I closed the silver case and saw that there was another writing on top of it. It was another monogram, two letters, S and H – obviously not marking the name of Mr. John Sigerson. _This must be a very special keepsake indeed_, I thought, _if he carries the cigarette case that has formerly belonged to someone else. Maybe an heirloom?_

While I was still contemplating the matter, the current owner of the keepsake suddenly reappeared in the foyer.

"Oh, good!", he said, but there was no joy in his voice, "You have found it, Madam. I am very obliged to you, I would not want to part with it."

"I assumed so", I said, handing him the case.

He took it with a slight bow and put it into the pocket of his coat.

"Mr. Sigerson…"

"Mrs. Norton?"

"I am perfectly aware that this might be considered a breach of propriety, but… I have a feeling that you are, right now, in the need of a friend. If that is true, and if you would consider me as such, I would be very honored."

His reaction was instantaneous, but not as I expected: He let out a strange sound, somewhere between a barking and a snort, and his face now looked clearly haunted.

"A _friend_!" He gasped. "Madam, I thank you, but be assured you would not want me as a friend! I am not a good friend at all! Now, allow me, please, to excuse myself." And with that he bowed and left me there, stunned.

_(t.b.c.)_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Dear all, I admit this is a very short update - meant to be more or less as a sign that I have NOT forgotten about this story and will hopefully update with something more substantial, soon. In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy this little something, as well..._

* * *

I must confess it took me some moments to recover from this rather strange blow! What on earth might have happened to the man to cause such a strange behavior? Was it just grief over a personal loss? I was not sure, but I had perceived something in his voice that sounded very much of guilt.

I knew I should have felt hurt, perhaps even angry about being… well… rejected in such a fashion… but no… no. I understood he had not really _rejected_ my friendship, or at least would not have in a more sober mood. Anyway, there seemed nothing I could do for him right now, so I finally decided to go home.

I spent a quiet evening. Godfrey had sent a long letter from Paris, and I eagerly sat down to write him an answer. We were accustomed to the fact of not being together every day and a part of me enjoyed the freedom and independence this arrangement granted me. But he had been gone for several weeks now, and I was looking forward to seeing him, soon.

Later I took my sheets of notes to the piano and tried to get ahead with my composition, but I only ended up in recollecting this afternoon's strange conversation, and my concentration on the musical task vanished again. That was when I finally got angry – angry, though, with myself, for letting the private matters of a more or less stranger that far into my mind! I should prepare for another concert or see my tailor over a new collection of winter dresses or start on my list for Christmas shopping in Paris or something in that direction! Pacing the drawing room like this and ruining the carpet as well as my nerves simply would not do!

I therefore retired for an early night.

The next morning found me in much better spirits, and I spent the first part of it lazily lounging in my bed with a cup of chocolate, the morning papers and a novel. When I finally got up, I took a long relaxing bath and got dressed for the day, and it was almost noon when I finally considered myself presentable.

Downstairs, I settled down at the piano again to study a new set of songs, when the maid came in and presented a visitor's calling card. I held it in my hand, considering and wondering, until I told her it would be all right and I would receive the gentleman.

A few moments later he appeared in the door, elegantly dressed and well-groomed as ever. But his face resembled the color of white ashes and the eyes were bloodshot. When I rose from my piano seat he bowed and looked at me quietly, obviously insecure how to begin.

"Mr. Sigerson." I sighed. "Forgive me for saying so, but you are looking terrible. Please, do sit down, and let us have some tea."

_(t.b.c.)_


End file.
